


burn bright, burn quick.

by Implosion



Category: Original Work
Genre: Drabble, Fantasy Universe, Gen, Rated T for the Occasional Non-Graphic Murder, shortfic, villain characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22740469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Implosion/pseuds/Implosion
Summary: "Burn bright. Burn quick. It becomes something of a mantra in the years that follow. Each Morrow before them has left a legacy, and Ash would be damned if they were the one that broke the cycle. Failure was not an option when you were destined for a short life. Greatness was a necessity, for it was better to have a name that was remembered than no name at all."--Vignettes from the life of Ash Morrow.
Relationships: Original Character & Original Character





	burn bright, burn quick.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a drabble I did for one of my characters, Ash Morrow! The world they live then is a fantasy world my friends and I are creating. I kinda wrote this in under four hours, with no spellchecker.. so readers beware! P: I don't expect anyone to read this, but I thought I'd post it anyway. Thanks for reading!

“It is the Morrow curse to die young, Ash.” This is one of their earliest memories. It’s the day after their uncle’s funeral. Their father kneels before them, face-drawn and weary. He isn’t a kind man by any means, but in this moment, the hand on their shoulder is gentle, apologetic. 

“Us Morrows are like bonfires.” He continues, “We burn bright, but we burn quick. Destiny is never kind to us. It is our curse; to reach greatness, but never live long enough to savour it.”

Burn bright. Burn quick. It becomes something of a mantra in the years that follow. Each Morrow before them has left a legacy, and Ash would be damned if they were the one that broke the cycle. Failure was not an option when you were destined for a short life. Greatness was a necessity, for it was better to have a name that was remembered than no name at all.

-

Ash grows. Time is not kind to them. The Bishops praise them for their work ethic, while the other students mock them for their frail physique. Here, their father’s name paints a target on their back. Thomas Morrow is a ruthless man, who taxes Stormhurst for all it’s worth. His temper is even more infamous. “Burn bright, burn quick.” Ash grits out through bloodied teeth, curling in on themselves as another kick lands itself against their ribs.

Later, when Ash returns to the manor, bruised eyes and split lip, wincing with every step they take, Thomas looks at them over the rim of his glasses, “You can’t even handle a couple of schoolyard bullies?” He says. He doesn’t need to say he’s disappointed - that much is obvious. “I expect more from you, Ash. Our family is destined for greatness. I’d hate to think that you’ll be an exception.”

“I’ll do better, father.” Ash says, hands clasped behind their back; the very picture of perfect posture. Their ribs ached, every step they took had them wincing in pain, but to admit weakness was to admit defeat.

A week passes. Ash watches from behind a pillar as the group of boys choke on their tongue. Apparently ingesting rat poison was bad for your health. When the worst of the fit passes, and they’re keeled over on the ground, gasping for breath, Ash passes by the group and presses the heel of their boot against the worst offender’s throat. 

A couple days later, they learn something new. If you leave someone alive, they will return for revenge. That is a weakness that can be exploited, so Ash vows never to be that weak again.

When the boys come for them again, Ash has a dagger. It’s laced with something worse than rat poison.

They are eight years old.

-

Their body turns against them. The physician calls it a weakness of the heart, an irregularity that could be deadly if they push themselves too hard. This weakness steals their breath and makes them prone to fainting spells. Thomas Morrow watches them from across the table at dinner. A rumour goes around that one of his mistresses has fallen pregnant.

-

“Burn bright, burn quick,” Ash hisses, curling their nails into their palms. They’re fifteen now, just one of many students vying for the esteemed position of being Blightmaster Norwood’s apprentice. They’re in Gloomgrave, a providence on the other side of the mountains.

Their mother occasionally sends them letters, updating them of the politics in Stormhurst. The latest is the most damning. Noire Morrow. Five years old. Bastard child. And now Heir to the throne that was rightfully theirs. They crumple up the letter and hurl it into the brazier burning nearby. 

“Bad news, Morrow?” Remus Ward asks, coming up behind them. He gently bumps his shoulder against theirs, offering a guileless grin - the one that made all the girls and boys at the sanctuary swoon. Ash isn’t one for swooning.

“Mm,” Ash says, noncommittally. 

“We~ll, I know something that would cheer you up. You up for some studying tonight? You’re getting sloppy, Morrow. If you keep placing second, Norwood will choose me as his apprentice instead~.” He’s teasing. It’s a jest. They both know who Norwood will choose from their class when the year comes to an end.

And yet.

And yet.

Ash smiles. Their grin is sharp. They wonder if Remus notices that it doesn’t quite reach their eyes. “I think I can fit some time in for you,” They purr, pulling him closer. They make plans to meet up later. No studying is done at all.

-

“That’s an awful lot of dreadroot, mister.” The girl says. She’s a tiny thing, barely reaching their waist, with pinkish hair and inquisitive eyes. She’s dressed like a street rat, but doesn’t hold herself like one. They’re not sure where she came from, or why she’s even in this district. It’s a pretty shitty place for a child to be.

“It’s for a rat,” They tell her, as they stuff a bushel of one of the continent’s most poisonous roots into their pack.

“It must be a pretty big rat,” She says knowingly.

Ash smiles, “He is.”

Every so often, they wonder what became of the odd girl. Five years later, they meet her again.

-

Three weeks later, they find Remus Ward dead in his cot. Due to the unusual circumstances, a Plague Doctor is called in to look over the body -- she rules that there was no foul play in the death, that his had heart had simply… given out. Unusual, but not unheard of for one as young as him. 

Blightmaster Norwood chooses Ash as his apprentice. After all, there is simply no one else in their year who could hold a candle to Ash’s mastery of poisons.

-

Ash returns home sporadically over the next couple of years, until they return for good upon the completion of their apprenticeship. For as loud as their father is, he might as well be a ghost for all the times Ash sees him at the manor. 

They see little Noire even less. He’s tutored privately by the best men their father can buy. Thomas learned his lesson with Ash, it seems. When Ash does see their father, it is only to hear him boast about the brilliance of his son. 

“He’s a savant,” His father rants at them one night. Thomas’ eyes are feverishly bright. He and Ash get together once a month now for dinner. Days of sitting at the long dining table with their mother and esteemed guests are long past. Now that Ash is home, they take dinner in their study. 

“He’s so smart, Ash. He’s going to be the best of us all.” There’s a looseness to his grin, in his jerky moments. Thomas Morrow is losing his edge. His grip over Stormhurst - and it’s extended territories, is rapidly slipping. 

Ash is eighteen years old now, and they know their place. It is to stay quiet, and listen: offering advice only when asked. Burn bright, burn fast, Ash thinks, topping off their father’s glass with more wine. “How are the negotiations going with the Marcellous Archeon, father?”

Thomas latches onto the new topic like a lifeline, and rants for the next hour.

-

Noire is ten years old. In a surprising turn of events, Thomas declares that this calls for a celebration. He is the heir of Stormhurst, after all. All of the Noble Families of Darkstone are invited. What’s even more surprising, is that some of them actually show.

Noire towers above the crowd on a throne, specially made for the occasion. Unlike most Morrows, he’s not fair-haired and pale eyed. He inherited his mother’s dark locks and blindingly blue eyes. He smiles sweetly down at the crowd, the picture-perfect nobleman. They adore him.

Their father had been unable to show for the event, claiming illness. He’s been sick a lot as of late, bedded by an illness that lay siege to his joints and weakened his lungs. The physician had promised that he would get better with time. Thomas was in his prime. All he needed was a little rest.

Ash’s role for the night is to charm all the young ladies. After the fourth or fifth their faces start to blur together. They’re an adult now, and their father has been urging them to marry. 

After yet another exhausting dance that has Ash wheezing in the corner, a young lady approaches him. She’s older now, taller, but there’s no mistaking the pink hair or the too-intelligent eyes. She holds out her hand for them to take. An invitation to dance. 

“Do you still trap rats?” She asks, as they lead her onto the ballroom floor. It’s the most laid-back dance Ash has had all night.

“I’ve graduated from rats,” They tell her, twirling her slowly. “I hunt lions now.”

“Why, what a coincidence,” says she, with a sparkle in her eyes, “So do I.”

They lead her around the room for another song before she gets down to business. “I hear you know Marcellus Archeon. And that you were the one who finally convinced him to finally make a trade deal with Stormhurst. Introduce me to him.”

“A favour like that won’t come cheap,” Ash warns her.

She smiles at them, the first genuine smile they’ve seen all night, “I know.”

Ash Morrow is twenty when he can finally give a name to the odd girl he met, so many years ago. Her name is Gwendolyn Emberist. 

-

Thomas Morrow is just another lump in the sheets, a wheezing shape that grows weaker with every day. Speech failed him weeks ago. A somber air has settled over the Morrow Manor. He isn’t long to die, this much, is obvious. All they can do now is wait.

Ash sits by his bedside. “You know father, I think I cracked the code.” They hold his pale, vein-speckled hand. “Why us Morrows are doomed to die so young.” Thomas squeezes their hand weakly. He’s listening. Good.

They lean in close, until their lips brush against his ear. “We’d live a lot longer if we stopped trying to kill each other at every turn.” Ash huffs out a dry laugh, as their father weakly tries to pull his hand away. “I’m too old to believe in curses, father.” 

Ash sits back, crossing their legs. “It’s ironic,” They muse, “We’re our own worst enemies. But I’ve learned from your mistakes." Their eyes harden, “Unlike you, I won’t leave a Morrow left to kill me.” 

Burn bright, burn quick. That was where their father got it wrong. Thomas Morrow was a bonfire; he devoured everything in his wake, consumed everything he touched. But, when there was nothing left to burn, he would burn himself. 

And everyone knows, in the wake of a fire, only ashes would remain.

**Author's Note:**

> Ash be like: I simply poison all my problems away.


End file.
